**A Difficult Decision. The Return**
“Go if you want,” said Oliver, placing his mug in the sink. His voice was steady, almost indifferent. “Just don’t expect any support from me. Not emotional, not practical.”
“I don’t,” Emily replied softly, avoiding his gaze.
“Don’t come back complaining it was a wasted trip.”
“I might. Or I might not. The point is not to regret never trying.”
She left anyway.
A delayed connecting flight meant she missed her next plane, vanishing without a trace. Seven hours in a stifling airport, a stale sandwich, and a shoulder bag instead of luggage—her dress was still in the hold of a plane on another continent.
The hotel said her reservation “didn’t go through.” The young man at reception smiled as if apologising for something trivial.
“Sorry, madam—we’re fully booked. I can suggest nearby motels?”
“Thanks,” Emily said flatly. “Just what I needed—a list of life’s failures.”
She sat in a café around the corner, ordered coffee, and scrolled through her contacts. Her finger paused on one name—Charlotte Whitmore. A uni friend from their days in Manchester. A few messages, rare likes… then silence.
*Should I risk it?* She sent a short text.
The reply came in three minutes:
*”Of course, come over! We have a guest room. And we’ll find you a dress—no problem. Though you’re probably slimmer now—I’ll pick something loose. God, it’s been ages!”*
By morning, they were driving through the outskirts of London. With every turn, Emily felt herself sinking deeper into a past long dead. Charlotte had changed—polished, confident, but still kind, with no hint of arrogance. She gave the club address, studied Emily critically, smoothed her hair, spritzed it with hairspray, and handed her a brooch.
“You’re not going as a ghost of the past, but as a woman who knows her worth. They’ll all have the same faces, the same lips. But not all of them have a soul. Stand tall, Em.”
The party was lavish.
Marquees, manicured lawns, waiters with champagne, women in designer dresses—as if stamped from the same mould. Everything was expensive, ornate… and alien. No familiar faces—just new ones: tanned, smoothed, self-assured.
Jack was the first to appear. A little older, but the same. He approached, gave a guilty smile, embraced her, whispered:
“I’m glad you came. Sorry—I didn’t tell Sophie. I wanted her to just… see.”
Emily didn’t reply. She already understood.
Sophie arrived later—not alone, but with an entourage. Designer dress, flawless face, glassy stare.
“Emily? What a surprise,” she said, lips curling in a smile that wasn’t one. “You… here?”
“I’m me. And here is just a place,” Emily replied evenly. “Happy anniversary.”
“Thank you. I hope the trip wasn’t too tiring?”
“A bit. But Charlotte Whitmore helped. Funny how old ties hold, even after years.”
“Charlotte? Oh, yes. She was a lifesaver when we moved. They say she has good taste. Is that her dress?”
“It’s comfortable. And fits better than some memories.”
Sophie faltered briefly.
“Well… I hope you enjoy the evening.”
“I already am. Thanks for the invite.”
“I… didn’t invite you.”
“But you’re not throwing me out,” Emily said, with a faint, knowing smile.
Later, when a guest suddenly collapsed, gasping, panic spread.
“He’s choking!” a woman in leopard print shrieked. “Someone call an ambulance!”
“I’m a doctor,” Emily said calmly, already beside him. No fuss, no hysteria—just steady hands. A check, a pulse, a bag under his head, an open collar. She moved like she did this every day. Because she did.
The ambulance arrived in fifteen minutes. In that time, neither Sophie nor her circle came near.
The next morning, Emily woke in Charlotte’s guest room. The dress was folded neatly on the chair; coffee and a note waited on the table:
*”You did the right thing. If you ever need to disappear in this city again—call. The room’s yours.”*
At the airport, she felt light.
Not because it was over.
But because everything had finally found its place.
That friendship had died long ago. The funeral had just been delayed. Now it was done. No flowers. No tears. Just a quiet goodbye.
Oliver waited at arrivals. His scruffy terrier, Alfie, nearly knocked her over with joy.
“So, how was it?” he asked.
“Closure.”
“Messy?”
“A bit. But proud.”
“And?”
“No regrets.”
He took her bag.
She took his arm.
And they walked home.
*—Sometimes you don’t realise you’ve outgrown people until you see them again. And that’s not a loss. It’s just time.*
